


toss a coin to your witcher

by lucifucker



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Monsters, Timeline, hand wavey yennefer content, ill write another one someday about her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:28:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22022569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifucker/pseuds/lucifucker
Summary: The stones always hurt, but Geralt would hazard to say that the looks on the faces of the people throwing them hurt more.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 61
Kudos: 1391





	toss a coin to your witcher

The stones always hurt, but Geralt would hazard to say that the looks on the faces of the people throwing them hurt more. He doesn’t care that they’re ungrateful. He doesn’t care that he risks his life to keep them safe and they hate him anyway. It’s not that, it’s none of that. 

It’s that he didn’t get to choose. He didn’t get to _choose_. If it had been his choice, he could live with that. He could live with the knowledge that his decisions, good or bad, gave people reason to despise him. He could do his work and shed his blood and sweat for them and take the stones, the rotten food they throw his way knowing he had made his choice. 

But he didn’t. He didn’t do anything. It was done to him. And now, the humans he would die for run him out of their towns because of a mutation he never asked for, never wanted. He’ll be alone for the rest of his life, he’ll be despised or idolized by every human he meets until fate finally takes him, and he didn’t even get to make the decision to live this way. 

That’s what hurts. It’s not the judgment. It’s the loneliness. It’s the desolate feeling of being the only one of your kind in a sea of other creatures. It’s the isolation. 

Some days he thinks he should find another Witcher to run with. That way, at least, someone will share the shame. 

—

“You needn’t do it alone.” Jaskier says, and Geralt scoffs. 

Another brawl, another death, another sunset, and Jaskier sits atop an outcropping of rocks watching Geralt scrub blood from his hands, his arms, his chest.   


“The fuck are you on about?” The twilight sun is setting, the stars are beginning to peek through the darkening sky.

“This,” Jaskier releases his lute to sweep a hand through the air, indicating the blood, the river, Roach drinking from its bank. “All of it. You needn’t do it alone.” 

He thinks of Renfri, of her death in his arms. He thinks of Marilka’s smile when she asked aft his past and her eyes as she told him to leave Blaviken, to never come back. He thinks of his mother, of an empty path, of a bucket of water seeping into the dirt. He thinks of stones hitting his head, rattling his skull, of fragile human bones.

“Yes,” He grunts, but doesn’t look at Jaskier. He doesn’t know why. “I do.”

—

“Fix it, and I’ll pay you. Whatever the price.” Years later, he doesn’t know why he offers it, but he knows he means it. Whatever the price.

He looks down at Jaskier, still, in the bed, after he’s bathed with the witch, and he wonders what she could have asked for that he would not have freely given. Nothing, he thinks. An arm, a leg, a wagon of coin. His soul to save Jaskier, if need be. 

He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know _why—_

_—_

“She saved your life, Jaskier.” He tells him, when he goes back inside the house, when he pulls away from the hands clutching desperately his shoulders. “I can’t just leave her.” He loves her, already, even now. He loves her knowing he will lose her. He has loved women before, he knows this feeling well, but the other one, the one which swells in his gut as he walks away from Jaskier, that one he cannot define. 

He makes his wish without thought. He makes his wish with a longing he cannot name clawing at his chest, fear clogging his throat. He makes his wish thinking of blood falling from plump lips and wide blue eyes begging for his help. 

It will be years before he learns; he loved her because she had saved something precious to him. He loved her because without her he would have lost the thing he could not lose, he would have lost--

—

They’re walking through a citadel to another job, another monster, when a noble with a pinched face and enough gold hanging around his neck to break his back grabs Jaskier by the front and drags him close. 

“You,” He hisses, foul breath bad enough to smell even from a few feet away where Geralt stands, “You’re the fruity bastard who’s been bedding my wife.” 

“Good sir, I-I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jaskier stammers, panic coloring his handsome face, and Geralt feels something within him begin to boil, “Surely you’ve mistaken me for some other fruity bastard.” The lord snarls and slams Jaskiers body into the closest wall, a resounding _thwack_ echoing through the street as his head hits the bricks. 

“ _Liar._ I know who you are, bard, I know your type—“ 

“He can’t have bedded your wife because he’s been bedding me.” Geralt says, evenly, crossing the space between them in a single stride as the lords foul mouth falls agape, shock and wonder giving him just enough pause for Jaskier to wriggle free of his grip and stumble to Geralt’s side. “You’ll find me a slight more difficult to cuckold than yourself, my lord. Besides,” It’s natural, a part of the act and nothing more, to curl his arm possessively about Jaskier’s waist and pull him closer, to press their bodies together, angling his own just slightly to put himself between Jaskier and this haughty lord. “Jaskier would never be false to me." The man scoffs and sputters as Geralt stares him down, daring him with Witcher’s eyes to come for what’s his. 

A beat, a moment, and the lord scurries off, tail between his legs, off to find some other poor sod to terrorize, but other poor sods are not Geralts problem. 

He turns to Jaskier, wide-eyed and gazing up at him with something in his expression Geralt doesn’t, can’t recognize. Unbidden, his hand comes up to cup the back of the bard’s head, checking for blood. When he finds none, it moves, grazing Jaskier’s cheek for the briefest of seconds before he snaps from the fog clouding his mind and jerks away. 

He’s twenty paces away when Jaskier speaks, words so soft only a Witcher could hear them. 

“Thank you.” 

—

“Go on,” He’d said, "ask about them. Everyone else does.” But he had lied. Not all. Not everyone. 

Jaskier never asks. Geralt strips without a thought for decency or shame. His eyes are not the only thing about him to scare others off. The scars that mar his skin are ugly, he knows. He has no measure for the beauty of a body, but he can measure in the gaze of the whores he beds that his own might have been perfect if not for the magic twisting inside him. But the scars, the scars never leave him, and the more he collects, the more marks on his form of the battles he’s won, the more questions there are to ask. The more mysteries to unravel about the inscrutable butcher of Blaviken. The more excitement to learn what fresh horrors Geralt lived through last. 

But Jaskier, curious, inquisitive, insatiable Jaskier who would ask a hawk how it flies if it crossed his mind, doesn’t. Instead, he watches Geralt silently, gaze hard and intent but never searching, never wondering. Instead, he pulls off his own clothes and steps into the water, steps up to Geralt with no hint of fear or trepidation in his eyes, and takes the filthy cloth from his hands. Geralt watches as Jaskier douses it in the river, rings it out. There’s a moment of hesitation, a single second in which blue eyes meet red and the earth stands still, and then Jaskier steps around him and begins to rub the guts and grime from his back. 

Geralt knows this but doesn’t know why. He never asks. 

Perhaps he should have.

—

“You did your best.” Jaskier says, “That’s all you could have done.” No one’s ever told him that, before. His bloody, vile, hateful best has never been enough for anyone. 

“Do what pleases you.” Jaskier says, and Geralt stands and heads for Yennefer’s tent, ignoring the look of hurt which he cannot understand that passes over Jaskier’s features. When he sleeps beside her that night, he finds himself tossing and turning, irate that the rhythm of her breaths does not match that of the bard he’s become accustomed to sharing his tent with. 

Why, why, _why—_

—

Yennefer leaves him standing on the mountaintop with guilt in his gut and an ache growing in his cold heart. When Jaskier comes to him, he doesn’t think. The hurt and the grief consume him and he lashes out as only he can, with all the venom and rage she had left with him. 

“If life could give me one blessing,” He spits, fury and pain and loss gnashing in his chest, “It would be to take you off my hands.” He turns away before he can see the look in Jaskiers eyes as he leaves him. He doesn’t watch him go.

Later, as he lists in Roach’s saddle, he thinks, _everyone leaves_. 

Just what he deserves.

—

He was careless. He was reckless. He was stupid. And now, now he’s dying. 

Fucking fool. He should have watched more closely before he crossed the field. He should have listened more closely. He should have been more careful.

He shouldn’t have gone in alone. 

Ten graviers and he slaughtered them all, but at cost. The wound in his belly is too deep, his hands are all that’s keeping his guts inside, and the smell of shit enough to tell him the last bite punctured his bowel. His right leg is bent wrong, bone poking through the leg of his breeches, and when he breathes he feels fluid filling his lungs. His vision starts to blur. He closes his eyes. He’s going to die.

He’s going to die, in this field, clutching his stomach to keep his intestines from spilling out, choking on his own blood. He’s going to die alone, and unknown. He’s going to die without saying goodbye to Yennefer. He’s going to die without making things right—

“Geralt,” He can’t see, not really, but he can still hear, still feel as trembling hands press over his own. “Geralt, look at me, you fucking prick, _look at me_.” He’s trying, but he can’t, his eyes won’t obey him, listing from side to side, unable to track the figure hovering over him. He tries to reach out, to touch, but those hands push him away. “I don’t know what to do.” The voice is shaking now, the hands are cupping his cheeks, stroking his hair. Lovers touches, but this doesn’t smell like any woman he’s bedded. Like any woman at all. “Geralt I don’t know what to _do_.” His lids begin to close, the tug of exhaustion too strong to resist, like a cool current pulling him under. “No. No, Geralt, no, stay with me, please, _stay with me—“_

_Jaskier_ , he thinks, as the clop of hooves grows closer, as he feels his broken body being shifted from the ground, _I’m sorry._

_—_

The sun is bright, and blinding, and when he wakes he can hardly open his eyes for its assault on them. He tries to swallow and coughs, pain lancing through his stomach as his body moves. It’s excruciating, its all-encompassing, and he thinks he may pass out again, but then there are hands gentling him back down onto soft pillows, a cup being pressed to his lips. He drinks greedily, heedless of the acrid taste of the liquid slicking his dry throat. Something is pulled over the sun, and the light dims enough that he can see. 

Shaggy brown hair, soft features. Bright blue eyes looking down at him, flicking over him. 

“Lie still,” Jaskier says, and Geralt can't help but obey as the bard releases him, refills the cup, brings it back and helps him drink again. This time he registers the taste and gags, but Jaskier gentles his jaw, strokes a thumb over his temple. “I know, I know, but you have to. It’s helping.” Geralt swallows, and Jaskier places the cup on a table by the bed, pulls back the blankets to reveal layers on layers of bandages wrapped around his middle, his leg. “You heal faster than most but you took a lot of damage. Yennefer—“ He breaks off, and looks away, lets go of Geralt and places his hands in his lap. “Yennefer made a potion. It keeps you alive while your body does the work. She’s not here.” He says when Geralts eyes widen, something bitter and hurt crossing his face. “She left when we knew you weren’t…that you wouldn’t…” Trailing off, Jaskier lets his head droop, leaning on his knees as though the very act of remaining upright takes effort. “There was so much blood, Geralt. There was so much—“ 

Geralt loses consciousness, and when he wakes again it’s with a clearer head. Jaskier sits at his bedside, still looking at the ground, and Geralt knows he should say something, but words are lost to him. The sight of Jaskier here, whole and warm and real, has robbed him of every thought he could have. His fingers feel clumsy, numb, but he moves them anyway, curling them as tight as he can around the wrist of one of those damned hands. Jaskier doesn’t move, doesn’t look at him, but the hand turns, and their fingers lace together, a touch that is somehow more intimate than a thousand shared baths and bedrolls. 

When he does speak, his voice is wretched, like stone scraping against stone, countless days of disuse clawing at his raw vocal cords, but his words are no less true. 

“You were right.” Jaskier looks up at that, wide eyes searching his face. Geralt’s grip is weak but he squeezes all the same, unafraid to meet the bards gaze. Looking right at him. “I needn’t do it alone. In fact,” He clenches his jaw, something warm and soft that smells like hope swirling inside him, “In fact, I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.” 

Jaskier stares at him for a moment which seems to stretch on forever, assessing, judging, calculating. Geralt’s heart beats a might faster than normal, his hand feels white-hot where its clutching Jaskier’s, and he doesn’t know why, he doesn’t know—

Clarity, like a blow to the chest, hits him hard. 

Later, he will wonder when he came to love the bard. Was it that day on the riverbank, when the djinn lodged itself in Jaskier’s throat and threatened to steal him away? Was it that afternoon in the citadel, pressing close to scare off some trumped up lord? Or was in the bar full of men too chicken shit to meet his eyes, when Jaskier had looked at him as few had, with no hint of fear or trepidation, no trace of apprehension that the butcher of Blaviken would do him harm. 

Now, however, he has no time to wonder, as he has wondered for far too long already. Now, he shifts, ignoring the pain which threatens to best him, sits up and raises another weary, weakened hand to cup the back of that auburn head, pressing against the spot where it had connected with the stone wall all those years ago. 

“Jask,” He rasps, a question, a prayer, a desperate plea. They are close, getting closer still, they are inches apart but to Geralt it feels like miles. Jaskier’s hair brushes against his forehead, his breath ghosts over Geralt’s cheek, and still those blue eyes bore into him, unflinching. Unafraid. “I’m sorry.” He is standing on the precipice. He is leaning over the edge.

Jaskier swallows, and reaches up, tucking a lock of white hair behind Geralt’s ear, and his fingertips linger over the witcher’s cheek. 

“Be careful, Geralt of Rivia.” He whispers, finally, achingly, warningly, thumb grazing the dark circle under Geralt’s eye. “I’ll fall in love with you. I won’t be able to help it.” His voice cracks toward the end, something harsh and broken slipping into his tone, and Geralt sways just slightly forward, just enough for their noses to bump together. 

“You’ll have caught up with me, then.” Their foreheads are touching. It seems to Geralt as though the world has ceased to exist, as though there is nothing on earth but the place where their hands are linked, the space between their lips. A sound not unlike a sob escapes Jaskier, his shoulders tighten, and Geralt runs, leaps, falls over that edge, and kisses him. 

There is warmth against his mouth, there is the smell of Jaskier’s skin, there are fingers sinking deep into his hair and a hand pressing hot against his neck. There is this, and this, and only this. Maybe there has only ever been this. They kiss as starving men eat, as a parched man drinks. Geralt thinks, _oh._

When they pull back for air, because they are but men and men need oxygen and this moment seems to have sapped it all, it feels to Geralt, stupidly, as though he’s been drowning his entire life, and has only just now learned to breathe. He’s breathing hard and harsh and Jaskier is no better, his chest is heaving, his pupils are blown wide, and he chases Geralt’s lips with his own, kisses him again and again, as insatiable in this as he is in everything else. Always needing more. 

But Geralt is wounded, gravely so, and its only so long before the pain in his gut becomes too much, before Jaskier lowers him back down onto the pillows and takes his hand between both of his own. Geralt scowls and tugs, hard, pulling him closer and closer still until the bard gives in and crawls into the narrow bed beside him. It’s a tough fit, this bed, whoever’s it is, was clearly not made to hold two grown men. But, where Geralt is bulky, Jaskier is slight, and their frames fit together like matching spoons, curled against each other on the tiny mattress. 

“I’m still angry with you.” Jaskier murmurs as Geralt’s falling asleep, fingertips tracing the lines around his mouth, leg hooked over the witchers unbroken one. Geralt nods. 

“I know.” 

“You hurt me.” The words are small, spoken softly, and Geralt’s chest constricts, his ribs seeming to squeeze tight around his heart. 

“I was wrong.” He manages, even as sleep takes him, even as his eyelids pull shut and his grip on Jaskier’s waist begins to lose its strength. Jaskier’s lips ghost over the bridge of his nose, his voice is fond, perhaps a might less hurt, when he speaks. 

“Sleep, you insufferable goon.” 

Geralt does.

—

It takes time, like all things. Jaskier is still stung after what happened on the mountain, and Geralt is not an easy man to deal with at the best of times. They argue, snipe, say things they don’t mean. Once, two weeks after Geralt has healed enough to return to the road, Jaskier becomes so incensed that he storms off into the woods. Geralt thinks _good riddance,_ until he hears Jaskier's cries from half a mile away and runs at a speed a human man could only dream of through the forest. He reaches a churning river just as the sound cuts off, and dives into the murky water without hesitation. 

It’s brutal and bloody. There are so many drowners, ten at least, dragging Jaskier’s thrashing form into the depths below, and Geralt is bitten and clawed until he cries out and his mouth fills with water, but he does not give in, does not give up until the bodies in the river float listlessly, until they can swim back to the surface, until he can drag Jaskier back to shore, a trail of blood and ooze floating in the water behind them. He collapses onto the riverbank with Jaskier coughing up bloody water and Geralt bleeding, wet, bruised. He wants to be angry. He wants to be furious with Jaskier, for running off, for getting himself into trouble, again, for foolishly walking by the river without Geralt to protect him. 

Instead, he feels nothing but bone-crushing, all encompassing relief as Jaskier expels the last of the water from his lungs and crawls to him, grasps his face, his neck, his shoulders and chest, fingers curling in the front of his sopping wet shirt. He all but tackles the bard, wrapping his arms iron-tight around his waist, holding the back of his neck to keep him close as he buries his face in the younger man’s drenched neck. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, “ _Geralt_ —“ Geralt silences him by sealing their lips together, crushing Jaskier as close to his body as he can, and understands. 

After that they don’t separate when they fight. They don’t storm off. After that day, when they can’t settle their differences, they sit, back to back, spines aligned and just barely touching. They don’t speak until they’re ready, they don’t force themselves to stop being angry, but they don’t run away, either. 

They needn’t do it alone. 

—

“I love you.” Jaskier breathes into Geralt’s shoulder, his neck, his chest, his mouth, tight and hot around him, legs wrapped about Geralt’s waist, arms curled around his neck. They are naked, they are sweating, and Geralt is touching him, he is touching him here, and here, and here, and he is closer and closer and closer than he has ever been to anyone, not Renfri, not even Yennefer. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” 

These are words he cannot say, no matter how much he feels them, no matter how they rattle around his lungs aching to be set free, so he makes it known in other ways. He bites and sucks bruises into Jaskiers throat, his shoulders, marking him as his own, a brand on his pale skin. _Property of Witcher. Do not touch._ He rubs his hands over Jaskier’s waist, his thighs, pulls out of him and slides down the bed to put his mouth where his cock just was, laves his tongue over the bard’s hole until he can’t speak anymore, until the only sounds coming from that clever mouth are moans and whimpers, until Jaskier’s fingers are sinking into his hair and pulling him back up, back _in_ , clutching him tight, pressing them back together like pieces of some strange puzzle. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt manages to grunt as he comes, murmurs it into the bard’s open mouth like a benediction, a prayer, and Jaskier gasps, arches against him, pressing Geralt deeper into himself as he follows suit, the witchers name spilling from his lips. 

Later, when they’re curled together, sated and relaxed, Jaskier pulls and prods at Geralt until he rests his head on the bards chest, cards his fingers through Geralt’s hair and ghosts kisses over his forehead, his temple, his cheeks. He runs his fingertips over Geralt’s back, over every pit and gouge, every imperfection in his skin. His touch lingers over a long scar that runs across Geralt’s back, stroking back and forth across the line of it, but he doesn’t ask. Geralt lays there for a moment, considering, and then speaks. 

“Manticore.” He says, and Jaskier’s movements still for a moment. 

“You don’t have to—“ Geralt cuts him off. 

“I know.” He looks up, cheek rubbing against Jaskier’s chest, meets those blue eyes with a certainty he doesn’t feel but knows he must. “I want to.” Jaskier slips his hand up to cup Geralt’s jaw and kisses him softly before settling back against the pillows. There’s a pause, and then;

“How old were you?” They don’t talk often about Geralt’s long life, it’s been years since he stopped counting his birthdays but having done the math they’ve estimated he should be nearing his one hundredth, now. It doesn’t faze Jaskier, the way it has with women in the past, that Geralt will outlive him. Life, for most, is short and fleeting, and Jaskier has seen firsthand how fleeting it can be for some. 

“Twenty.” He says, lets his hand rest over the curve of Jaskier’s ribcage, his palm pressing against warm skin. “In the forests outside Novigrad. I thought I might die right there.” Jaskier snorts. 

“Good job you didn’t, you great oaf.” He murmurs, kisses Geralt’s forehead and prods him in the side. Geralt growls and pivots his body, rolling them over until Jaskier’s in a heap on top of him, laughing and wheezing against Geralt’s neck. 

—

Another town, another Wraith. Another angry crowd of villagers throwing stones. As he’s headed for the gate, the first one hits him in the back of the head, and he flinches, drops into defensive stance, a practiced dance between him and a throng of hateful humans. He sinks to the ground and waits for more to come, hears the swish of another rock through the air, but it never connects. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Jaskier’s voice has never been so full of fury in the time Geralt’s known him, and when he looks up the bard is holding the stone he’d heard fly, gripping it white-knuckled in his hand, standing between Geralt and the townspeople like a mother bear stands over her cub, like--

Like Geralt stands between monsters and humans. 

“He came here to _save you_.” Jaskier spits, tosses the stone away and crouches down by Geralt’s side, gentles the back of his head seeking a contusion, pulls him back to his feet. “He risked his life to make sure your town was safe, and this is how you repay him? Would you rather wake to find your children had been eaten in the night?” There’s a collective gasp from the surrounding townsfolk, but Jaskier doesn’t stop, curls his fingers in a death grip around Geralt’s wrist and sets his shoulders back in the commanding posture not of a general or a warrior but of a performer scorned. “He protects you.” He says, finally, eyes scanning the crowd, daring them to speak. “Show him some goddamn respect.” 

And with that, and a tug at Geralt’s arm, he walks forward, heedless of the glares and whispers of those around them, and steers them out of the gate. They walk in silence for a few minutes, heading back to where Roach has been waiting in the woods, Jaskier fuming, Geralt in shock. When they’re out of sight of the town, only trees and greenery to be seen in every direction, Jaskier stops, abruptly, and drags Geralt into his arms. 

“Are you alright?” He whispers, feverishly, fingers stroking through Geralt's hair, lips pressing over and over to his temple, his cheekbone, his forehead. “Geralt, are you alright?” He knows, he must know, that it will take more than a few stones to break a witcher, but Geralt thinks he doesn’t mean his body. Jaskier’s eyes are blue, and his hair is brown, and his hands are framing Geralt’s face, cradling his head. Jaskier is here, with him, standing by his side even when the world wants him dead or worse. Geralt feels, for the first time in his life, dumbstruck.

“I’m fine.” He whispers, awe coloring his tone as he curls his arms around Jaskier’s waist, lets himself bury his face in the bards neck and inhale deeply, savoring his human’s particular scent. “I’m fine, I’m alright.” Jaskier exhales a hard breath and relaxes incrementally in his embrace, presses his cheek against Geralt’s. 

“Don’t—“ He breaks off as though something is clogging his throat, and Geralt feels something wet between them. “Don’t let them do that to you. Not alone.” He pulls back, meets Geralt’s eyes, hard, sure, certain. “You needn’t do it alone.” 

Geralt kisses him. It’s the least he can do. 


End file.
